The Poe We Speak Not Of
There really is no place of beginning, just a hazy sort of area where things began to happen. I was never really conscience of it though. I suppose you'll want me to start somewhere though, yes? I am guessing that that would make it a little easier for you to understand my story. Yes, I will pick a place to begin.
I decided to follow that crazy man some time in the winter. I had watched him for so long, wondering what could posses a man to live the way he did. He never quite looked well, and seemed to be sunken into himself. He would take long, slow walks around the small town we lived in and gaze through windows. He never talked to anyone without need. While walking down the street, he often was seen looking at things that most people missed, small insignificant things. It almost seemed like he saw more to everything than there really was. The most minute detail over-looked would throw him into fits of rage or extreme emotion of the sort. I remember once, watching him go into a local bar and order a sandwich. When the poor waiter returned, he was greeted by having all the food on the tray thrown into his face. Poe leapt to his feet and demanded a reimbursement for the slight he had been given. Well, naturally, the waiter couldn't comprehend what he had done, so he begged for forgiveness, but Poe wouldn't hear of it. He simply turned, and with a very regal manner, strode from the room, and never went to the bar again. Some people say Poe lost his mind. Some say the waiter had said something cruel to him. I, however, believe that Poe was used to better. Maybe he had once lived in another land, where something that the waiter had done was rude, or uncouth. I suppose I'll never know. For all of his odd mannerisms, I was drawn to him. I indulged myself in the little feelings I had and let them grow for no reason at all. It became an obsession with me. I wanted to know everything about him, and I wanted him to notice me. I decided to follow him and watch him throughout the course of a day. I wanted to know what, if anything, inspired him to laugh, or cry, or yell, or show any bit of emotion, so . . . it begins!
I stood in the shadows of the large trees around me, directly in front of the Poe house. A cold breeze attempted to tear the thick gray cloak from my shoulders. I had, that morning, chosen the cloak and vibrant green dress that I wore, in hopes to blend into the surrounding trees, although, it must be admitted that there were other reasons for the dress. I stood waiting for the man of my interests to descend from those old steps and come out to take a brisk walk, as I had often seen him do in the town, laying five or six miles to the west. It seemed he would never leave that old bundle of wood and stone. Three hours of standing, sniffing, coughing, and stamping my feet for warmth had cooled my once infallible plan. I was just ready to turn back and try again another day, when the old wooden door creaked open, and all of my aspirations and hopes returned with one sharp intake of breath. A small thin woman scurried from the house, as if hell itself was snapping at her little white ankles. She cast fearful looks over her shoulder, and the flesh that had suddenly been thrown into the cold goosed and left her rubbing her arms, hands, and any other exposed skin to warm herself. She slowed hesitantly and turned, facing the house, with fear still, but a bit of stubborn pride in her blue eyes.
"Edgar . . . Edgar?" her plaintive voice broke the crisp silence, "Edgar, I'll freeze without my cloak; may I please have it? Please?" I felt for the woman, standing not twenty feet from me, shivering with the cold. I thought to lend her my cloak, when a bundle of dark cloth was expelled from the open door, as if the old house had rejected it's taste, and spit it out disgustedly.
"Edgar, when do you wish me back?" Her bottom lip trembled with the fear of the answer.
Surprisingly, a menacing form appeared in the doorway. Anger poured through the dark eyes, and I thought that if those eyes were to glance my way, death would certainly swallow me then and there. "You are no longer welcome here. Find some fool to take you in. Maybe you'll learn to do some work. Then you can come and beg for forgiveness, but expect none." The words were laced with malice and contempt. I could not help but wonder what had driven him to loathe her so much. The man's form turned abruptly, and the door seemed to slam of it's own accord, as if the hate had pushed it back into place.
The young woman continued to stare at the door for a few minutes, then tears began to find their way down her child-like face. She sunk slowly to the ground, as if the weight of all of her pain had been too much to bear, so there she sat in the frosted grass, crying quietly.
I knew my duty. God loved each of His creations, no matter the sinful deeds they had committed. No matter what the woman had done, in God's eyes she was still worthy of help. I knew she would freeze out there without a horse, she might not even care enough to put on a cloak against the cold in the state she was in. I sighed and let loose a high, shrill whistle, then began to walk to the crumpled woman on the ground. I picked up the dark cloak that Poe had thrown to her and stood over her. She didn't seem to realize she was being watched. She sobbed into the frozen turf and couldn't even lift her head to acknowledge her visitor.
"Mademoiselle?" My voice was steady and sounded rather cold, more so than I meant it to be. I realized I didn't like this woman. She had done something unforgivable, yet I didn't even know what.
"Mademoiselle, take my horse, I won't need him, as you do."
The girl, for a girl she was indeed, looked up from the harsh ground and sniffed back a few tears. Her porcelain, little face was already rosy at the cheeks and nose from the chilly air. Her innocent sky-blue eyes were overcast with clouds from crying. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets around her white face, and they bobbed with each sniff. Perfection was her essence.
"Are you the new . . . " a sob wracked her frail form. She took a deep breath and gritted her perfectly aligned teeth for the task. "Are you to be fulfilling my place with him?" Tears welled in those perfectly shaped almond eyes.
"I'm afraid I know not your job, or 'place' so I can't say." I felt older, and so much more mature, that I couldn't help but dangle this little wretch from my grasp.
"Please don't think that all of those things he said are true." The girls quiet voice had pulled me from my thoughts.
"What?" I asked, completely confused.
"I do my work, and I'm faithful to him, though he returns no such favor. I'm a good wife but he's been writing. He thinks I don't know. When he writes he gets crazy. He upsets dinner into my lap, he throws clothes that I just folded, then demands that I fold them, just to repeat the whole thing!" Tears began to mist in her eyes, and for lack of any more compassion for the lying chit I directed the conversation elsewhere.
"Of course not dear, do you hear the tack? I believe my horse has finally arrived. Now listen . . . " My sweet horse galloped over to me, heaving from the obedient run to my whistle. I let the large gelding nuzzle my hand for food as I told her how to return my horse in case I found need of it " . . . all you need to do is give him a little water when you reach town, and if you ride him hard, give him a good break. Then turn him back this way, and whistle just like this." I pursed my lips, and let loose a high warbled whistle. The mount whinnied in protest that he was already with me, and couldn't very well go find me like I had just commanded. I turned to him and smiled. I rubbed his thick neck as the girl's eyes turned from large to expansive.
"Forgive me, but I can't ride!" Fear crawled through her voice. She seemed not embarrassed in the least.
"You can't ride?" There was no way to keep astonishment from my voice. "No." That little word came out very frail, and weak. I had almost missed it.
"Well, he's very surefooted, he'll get you to town." Exasperation roiled thorough me. I handed her the cloak I had been holding, as if to finish the problem. She considered me for a moment, then took the cloak and began to fasten it on her shoulders. She walked slowly to the gray gelding, and smiled to me. I rolled my eyes, and held out my hands to help her up into the saddle.
After some struggling and exasperation, she was finally straddling the large gelding.
"Is Monsieur Poe planning to be out soon?" I couldn't suppress the hope that inflated my voice, but the girl didn't seem to notice.
"No. As I said, he's writing and won't be out for days. If it's urgent business, knock on the door. If you get no reply, just go in. He'll be in the back parlor. Mind he doesn't catch you snooping around, or he's liable to get ugly about it." The girl seemed like a secretary. She didn't even bat an eyelash at the odd instructions.
"Thank you. Now you had best be on your way." I wanted nothing more than for her to leave. I turned the horse by the reins and gave him a slap on the rump. Finally she was off, looking foolish: bouncing, swaying, and clinging onto the mount as it trotted into the trees. I sighed at her back and prayed forgiveness for the hate that somehow found it's way into my heart.
I turned and looked apprehensively to the looming house before me. It looked even more sinister now that I was closer. I could smell the rotting paint and the decaying wood. Some of the windows were broken and boarded up to keep out the cold. No light issued forth from any of the covered or uncovered windows. In fact, nothing could be seen of the inside from the outside. I tried to imagine the house as it may have looked long ago, but all that came to mind was how it looked at the moment. I brushed off the hesitation, and walked steadily to the door. I'm not one to be frightened by things unseen.
The first knock received no reply; neither did the second, third, fourth, or fifth. I didn't want to upset the man by stumbling into his house like some sort of street urchin, but I had been told that he may not come to the door, so I decided that the blame wouldn't rest on me if my actions did anger him. I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door. Dank and musty smells assailed me as I entered the entryway. I had the urge to flee the dark halls and stairs that lay a scant eight feet away. I stepped the remainder of the way into the room and put my weight against the door to close it, as if to close out the only means of escape. I would see this through.
The girl had said he would be in the 'back parlor' but had given no directions to where the 'back parlor' was. I looked to my surroundings. There was a room to each side of me, both dark and unlit, as was the rest of the house. The carpets looked to never have been cleaned, and the drapes were moth eaten and probably moldy, by the looks of them. The room to the right seemed to be a large dining area, with a table longer than I had ever seen. The cloth that covered the table was covered with plaster that had fallen from the crumbling ceiling. The room to the left was once a sitting room, as best I could see. However, the chairs were so rotten, I guessed they would not hold much over my own small weight.
Directly in front of me were three passages. One up, one down, and one straight forward. I strained my eyes to see up the stairs, but after the first fifteen steps, the darkness stole the sight from me. Down looked so fearful that I couldn't hold my gaze on the wooden stairs for long, for fear of what I might see coming up them. The path ahead of me ran along-side the down set of stairs, and looked the most inviting of all of the passages. I faltered on the first few steps, but as I moved my strides became more confident. As I passed by the declining stairs, I felt the cold clammy air of the cellar, and nearly screamed at how much it felt like a corpse. I hastened my steps. Once past the stairs, I slowed down and looked to either side of me. One wall was covered with old, cracking photographs. The other bare as a bone. These walls were scrubbed clean, and the floors looked to have been scrubbed a bit, too. The hall wasn't terribly long, and I felt more and more comfortable as the hall grew shorter.
Even without the light, I could see the bend in the hall a few paces before I got there. Apprehension began to rise in my stomach, but I fought it down, promising not to allow myself to become subject to my imagination. I continued my seemingly long walk to the end of the hall and was almost as sad as I was nervous to take the last step into the bend. I continued before I could allow myself to turn around to the hall again.
Before me stood a large door. It had the same worn look as the rest of the house but was obviously used more frequently. It also looked to have been scrubbed a few times. The large brass handle had been worn to a soft yellow that almost seemed to let forth it's own gentle glow. Once again, I reprimanded myself for letting my imagination run wild. Here I stood, looking dumbly into a door handle, where any one could stumble onto me. I felt a fool. Without even thinking to knock, I pulled open the door just to do something with my idle hands.
Immediately a glow, not unlike the one I thought I had seen coming from the handle in the hall, enveloped me in soft delicate tendrils. I smiled without really meaning to. The room was vacant of any human forms, but the quiet fire in the corner, an odd place for a fire I noted, gave the whole room it's very own life. I shut the door, as if to shut out the remainder of the cold, sordid house. I felt safe and warm, even though I was in a house I'd never seen before today, and alone in this house with a man I had never formally met. The dull ache of the biting cold outside still pulsed in my bones, so I walked around the various bits of furniture, dropping my cloak on a chair as I passed, and stood before the little hissing fire.
The yellow glow illuminated my sun branded skin. The heat was startling for such a small fire, but on closer inspection, I saw it was made mostly of coals. It looked to have been burning for quite some time. I turned three or four times to heat myself thoroughly, rather like a pig on a spit, I mused.
After driving the dull, aching chill from my bones, I walked around the room inspecting things. There was various small desks, chairs, and books scattered to the wind. Papers also littered everything. Many crumpled papers seemed to have been thrown in an attempt to hit the fire and be consumed, but had fallen short or been caught up by furniture. I noted the arrangement of the room. The fireplace was in one corner of the room on the south and eastern walls. The door I entered from, the only one occupying the room, was on the east wall. The largest piece of furniture, a light wooden desk, stood in a kingly manner, taking up nearly the whole length of the west wall.
I walked to the large desk and went around it's long front and sat in the immense chair that was pressed hard against the wall. I felt small in the large encompassing chair. It's velvet arm rests and plush seat made me think of an inn I had worked in once. Everything soft and of class.
I allowed my fingers to work over the small brass bumps that held the velvet in place on the bottom of the arm rests. I imagined Poe doing the same thing countless times, until the round bumps were worn soft and smooth. The high, cloth covered back, was dipped slightly in the stuffing, and I wondered idly if Poe had caused the indention with his own back. I sat forward, putting my interest into the things that covered the littered desktop. I picked up a piece of paper and scanned the whole page, finding myself engrossed in the morbid details of the horrific story.
Visions filled my mind. He was writing about a murder, a very gruesome murder, in which two women had been the victims. The details caused me to turn away in revulsion. I wondered what had caused him to write such awful things and how he could stomach the details he told of. I put the paper aside and decided that he must have stories of happiness elsewhere, and I had just chosen one of the few frightful ones.
I put my hands out flat on the desk and stretched my tired muscles. I looked at the contrast from the light, worn wood, to the dark, worn look of my hands. I let my gaze stray to the deep green sleeves. It really was a beautiful dress. The sleeves came exactly to my wrist, the top extending, as if reaching to touch my long slender middle fingers on each hand. The sleeves were tight, and simply made, with a single seam running up my underarm. The sleeves fed into the shoulders, which in turn plunged into the neckline. It did fall considerably, showing more flesh than I was used to flaunting. The bodice came to my hips in a very revealing way, the fabric showing the pleasing curves and hiding the unwanted ones. The skirt was sewn to the bodice in bunching the fabric, so it gathered at the seam, then dove for the floor. The back dragging ever so slightly.
I had to admit that I had chosen it because it looked understandably good on me. My jet black tresses fell to my neckline, contrasting the green of my dress. Eyes of jade had always given me a raptor-like gaze. They had also caused a few hearts to falter and had earned a few modest comments.
A noise sounded from the hall, waking me from my stupor. Panic rose in my throat. What if he became angry? I looked around the cozy room for a place to stand and greet him. I knew I wanted the best place, where I would see him first and get the advantage. Advantage for what, I knew not. I chose the closest spot that still seemed wise. I strode to the corner, in between the door, and north wall. I turned and raked thorough my hair, took a deep breath, then expelled it.
Walking sounds became distinct in the hall. I felt my body trembling. Before I was ready (I can't say how I should ever be ready), the door swung open. Since the door swung toward me, it obscured the vision of the man who stood behind it. A hand reached around the door, and swung it shut with a bang, while Poe stepped fully into the room.
"Foolish woman . . . " Poe's deep, angry voice rumbled through me, I waited for the lightening that must follow such a peal of thunder, " . . . woman? No," At this, I wondered if he would say more, and contrived to speak to him, as he stood just a few feet from me, but just as I opened my mouth, " . . . child. Foolish child." Then his murmurs stopped for a time.
Quick, jerky movements were his, as he turned to the opposite corner that I was in and began to shuffle through things here and there. His wild looks were even more punctuated by the lack of taming for his hair and the plentiful marks of ink on his hands, face, and seemingly, every where he had touched. His dark brown, if not black, eyes took in only what was important to him. It was almost as if he intended nothing to ever change, so he had no reason to look about him here, unlike in town. He had a small mustache, but I knew most of what he looked like outwardly because of my studious nature of him. My face heated as I realized that there was no way to introduce myself now without being rude. I had simply stood there and let him ramble, thinking himself alone. Embarrassment kept my mouth shut, because I simply didn't know what to do.
Poe continued to fiddle with things and mutter quietly under his breath. He finally went to his desk and sat. He adjusted his back and legs until comfortable. Then he swept the feather pen up and began to sift through his papers. He read the last paragraph or so of his work, smiling at some parts, and scribbling down notes in the margins on others. When he had read through it, he set down the piece of paper, shoved up his sleeves, and began to write. The words came fast, and easily, and only once or twice did he have to stop scrawling to think. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted to have written.
When twenty minutes or so had passed uneventfully, Poe suddenly jumped from the chair and leapt into the middle of the room, a mere five feet from my hiding place of thin air. He moved about, retracing steps he made and laughing maniacally. He traced the steps with his finger in the air and then scurried to the heavily draped window, throwing aside the thick drapes. He heaved at the window, as if forgetting that it was nailed shut. He stopped, looking at the window, completely perplexed, then threw back his head, and laughed. He tore off the old rotted wood, tossing it carelessly into the fire, which licked, tasted, then consumed the wood in hungry gulps. Poe didn't stop for an instant. He opened the window frame, having no glass, and stood out on the ledge. I nearly yelled out to him when he almost lost his balance, but he just whooped all the louder, not hearing my slight noise of warning. He danced about out there, and then came back in, closing the window behind him. He strode to the door, threw it wide, and bellowed.
"Anna. Anna! Where are you, you lazy twit? Get down here and clean up this mess! I don't have time to come looking for you. If you don't come quick you'll not be having dinner, my dear wife." He snarled the words 'dear' and 'wife' so frightfully, that I nearly didn't understand the word, although he had spoken it quite clearly.
He slammed the door and kicked a stray piece of board he had torn from the wall. He then moved to the window and began to take up the strange dance he had begun before. He moved awkwardly and seemed to be holding air in his hand . . . almost as is it were a knife. He then contrived to shave the air. This dance of dementia was scaring me and giving me chills. I thought surely he had lost his mind, but his eyes still held the same look they always had, not quite well. He looked over his shoulder, then flew into a tantrum, almost as if he had seen something out the closed window that angered him. He moved about, as if hurling things, yet touching nothing. He watched each of his movements as if to memorize them. He stopped in front of me, looking at the ground, noticing the hem of my dress. All movement ceased. We both stood, neither one moving. His hand still in mid air, balanced on the balls of his feet.
His gaze remained on the floor for an almost painful amount of time. I wanted to explain my presence but couldn't speak a word, for I knew not if I would be speaking to a mad man or a sane one. His gaze finally lifted and he let it slowly take in every bit of me. I felt defiled by his lingering gaze. His eyes halted on my rising and falling expanse of chest, and I immediately felt sick for wearing the low neckline. His gaze moved after a brief second, not near fast enough for me. Our eyes locked. Then I knew: His not being 'quite well' was insanity. Hate welled in his eyes, like tears had welled in Anna's. Her sky-blue eyes lived with this creature. I nearly cried at the thought of what my obsession had made me feel toward her.
"Why are you here?" I hadn't expected such a civil tongue from such venomous eyes.
"I . . . Monsieur, I had come . . . my horse, you see . . . " I stopped, knowing how pitiful I sounded, and knowing at this instant I could do no better.
"Leave." This single word bore all the hate in the world. His features contorted with hate, nearly made me swoon. I gazed upon the once admired face and felt bile rising in my throat. "Leave!" His shout echoed through my soul. Then I did leave. Not my body but my mind. I fled into the recesses of my mind, to escape my foolishness, my terror, and those steely black eyes. I swooned.